


Keep Turning

by sellswordking



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:10:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sellswordking/pseuds/sellswordking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone stayed the same after Sherlock died. Not everyone reacted the same when he came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Turning

The immediate stench of alcohol told Sherlock that the Inspec— _former_ Inspector had moved on to drinking the cheapest and strongest of whatever he could find. _Dull_ , he thought, pushing open the door wider to see a sprawled body on the sofa under the light of the flickering television. There was no sound but the bottles moving under foot when Sherlock attempted to step forward, and that small pit in his stomach opened up to a numbing fear.  
  
Much like his reunion with John. First had come disbelief, then anger. And the anger had lasted for _far too long_ before John allowed himself to break in Sherlock’s arms. It was the first time they had ever embraced, and it should have happened _years _ ago. It should have happened the moment they met. And John told him so, through the tears and the violent clinging to his jacket, in his hair, unable to let go even to sleep. They’d curled together on the sofa until morning when John complained about his shoulder and his hip, and Sherlock demanded tea. It was _normal_ , blessedly and unbelievably, and they both grinned at one another before John told him they were out of milk.  
  
They melted into a serious conversation, and John filled him in where Mycroft and Molly had not.  
  
Of course, he had been able to read the papers, he had looked online. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade dismissed from Scotland Yard for misuse of police equipment and violation of the law on several counts. Because of all of those who had been imprisoned thanks to his squadron, no charges had been leveled against him. However, he lost all of his benefits. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce what else that would mean. With no job and a dishonorable dismissal, Lestrade would have lost the partial custody he had of his children, would have trouble finding a new job, and would languish in being forgotten and useless.  
  
 _Predictable_. Sherlock thought, looking down at the unshaven face and shaggy, grown out silvering hair. He was barely a step from being a vagrant. _A nice edition to my homeless network, though_ , the thought continued as the consulting detective attempted to pry the bottle from Lestrade’s fingers.  
  
“What do you _want_?” Lestrade didn’t open his eyes. Sherlock scoffed at the behavior; it was downright _childish_.  
  
“My Inspector to stop wallowing in his own self-pity, but I suppose that’s too much to ask from someone like you. I’ll settle for a shower, you smell far beyond offensive.” One eye cracked open to look up at Sherlock, followed slowly by the other. He’d expected some kind of reaction once it settled in that this was no drunken stupor of Lestrade’s. No one else had been informed that Sherlock was alive, preferring instead to tell those few he’d protected himself and then restart his life in obscurity.  
  
Lestrade pushed himself off of the sofa, and Sherlock braced himself for another good hit to the jaw, tilting his head slightly to encourage it on the opposite side that John had hit the night before. But the hit never came. Lestrade just stepped around Sherlock, moving into the kitchen to pull out another bottle of beer. “If it bothers you, get out.”  
  
For a moment, Sherlock was lost. That wasn’t the reaction he had expected. Lestrade went to sit back down, but the younger man grabbed him by the arm and took his beer. “My brother has gotten you your job back, there is no—”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” When Sherlock only blinked, feeling his forehead wrinkle with the concentration it took to keep from blurting out a sound of confusion, Lestrade’s lips curled up in a grimace that was supposed to pass as a smile. “I told him to piss off, Sherlock. And now I’m telling you the same. Get out of my flat.” Yanking his arm away, the man dropped himself back down and began flicking through the channels he still had.  
  
“You’re upset because you lost your job. Getting it back should solve the problem.” Sherlock stated facts, lost and suddenly understanding why John had asked him not to come to Lestrade. “It’s just that simple, is it?” The former Inspector’s voice was flat, and the television settled on static as he looked up. “You just…you waltz back in and fix everything you fucked up three years ago, and we all forgive you and just forget it. Go back to what used to be? Where you’re solving crimes that aren’t _boring_ and I’m seeing my kids every other weekend, and John isn’t hollowed out anymore? London as safe as it ever was before you and Moriarty tried to burn it to the ground just to keep playing with one another?”  
  
As he spoke, Lestrade had sat himself up, then stood for the second time in the span of minutes, his eyes locked to Sherlock’s. For the first time since childhood, London’s most brilliant consulting detective was stunned silent.  
  
Lestrade had been angry with him before, yes, and had even lectured Sherlock a few times as his father would before his death. The truth was, Sherlock had respected Lestrade for that, and for never once looking at him like he’d gone a step too far after the first few times. He simply accepted Sherlock’s behavior, the way John had done almost instantly. It was one of the reasons he’d gladly sacrificed his time to keep the man safe. This, however, was _new_ data.  
  
Sherlock had never seen this side of Lestrade, or of any human being before. “Stop. I can see you trying to figure it out, but there’s nothing to figure out. I’m done being fucked around by you and your brother and John Watson and the bloody Met. I’m done watching bodies reassembled and explaining to loved ones what happened and where to pick up remains.” The static on the television reflected in Lestrade’s eyes, highlighting the bags beneath them. Sherlock felt like he’d _lost_ , like Moriarty’s sniper had taken out one of the promised friends that day without even firing the bullet. “It’s been _three fucking years_ , and you’re not gonna let your big brother settle this account for you like it’s all fine. You deal with this.”  
  
There was a pit in Sherlock’s stomach that only hollowed out and grew when Lestrade brushed past him to go to the bedroom down the hall. “Welcome back, Holmes.” 


End file.
